


current

by honeybeesandappletrees



Series: watersong [2]
Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Multi, POV Second Person, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 09:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17506421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybeesandappletrees/pseuds/honeybeesandappletrees
Summary: a current's a powerful thing. be careful not to be swept away.





	current

The sunlight is warm.

It’s the fading golden light of late afternoon, just warm enough to be a soothing kiss on your skin. It bathes the room bronze, like each item has been trapped in syrupy amber. You shift, just a bit, so that the rays aren’t slanting directly into your eyes. One of your arms is starting to prickle with numbness; you drape it over the figure at your side to get the blood flowing again. He’s emanating warmth – sometimes you wonder if the summoning fire lives just under the skin of the Food Souls – and you rest your head against his shoulder blade, closing your eyes.

“Attendant?” From the rise in his voice, you can tell that Zongzi is, as per usual, flustered by you. 

“You’re the one that asked me to stay with you,” you remind him. “Stop squirming, you’re supposed to be recovering.”

He stills. 

He goes so still, in fact, that you raise your head and start to roll away. You don’t intend to go far - the two of you are situated in your favorite oversized window seat and you are loath to give it up - but he catches your wrist as you move. You pause. His grip is gentle but firm. There’s a moment of quiet and then, with a huff of air, he pulls your arm back over his chest. “Stay,” he says. “Like this. Please.” There’s a flush blossoming at the nape of his neck and you bite back the quiet, affectionate laugh that’s bubbling in your throat.

He doesn’t let go of your wrist until you hum an agreement. “Thank you,” he says, but it’s so soft that you aren’t sure it’s meant for you to hear. You wonder sometimes how you could have such a kind being, so grateful for the smallest attentions, in your orbit when you have lived the life you have. When his fingers fall away from your skin, you move just enough to drape your arm over him more easily. You can feel his back rise and fall with each of his breaths.

You close your eyes again and let the soft blanket of the sun cover you. There’s the quietest sensation of fading, just at the edge of your mind. 

Waking up is like swimming through molasses. You’re sleep hot, the cotton of your shirt sticking to your damp collarbone. The world is the deep yellow of the autumn ginkgo leaves and fuzzy at the edges, like you’re viewing it through textured glass. Your seeking fingers find only indents in the cushion. The fabric is losing heat quickly. Between the light and that, you cannot have slept long, but the world is still curiously muffled around you, murky with the remnants of your impromptu nap.

You groan quietly to yourself as you stretch. Your knee gives off a satisfying crack, whip sharp in the quiet of the study.

“Attendant.”

You falter. It takes you a few seconds to resume your stretch. You want to wake the sleeping muscles of your body as you have woken, soft and steady. Still, the hitch in your movement had to have been obvious. And indeed, the silence has a pleased edge now, as if his delight in startling you has infiltrated the very air. The faintest hint of sweet smoke wafts around you. “Peking,” you say quietly, pushing yourself upright and turning to face him.

He’s enthroned in one of the plusher armchairs by the desk, his features faintly distorted by the smoke flowing from his lips. “You haven’t slept long,” he tells you. “He said he couldn’t bear to wake you.” The curve of his smirk confirms what you have already assumed. Zongzi, embarrassed, had fled when Peking had entered.

“Clearly not a feeling you share,” you murmur to yourself.

Peking chuckles, the sound a low rumble. In the fading light, his golden eyes are molten. “Did I do something to wake you, Attendant?”

You weigh the question for a moment. He is not an easy Food Soul to lie to - he’s proven that time and time again - and you are not quite sure you wish to admit that you feel particularly sensitive to him now, as if his soul power is tangible against your skin.

“Did you wish to wake me?” you ask instead.

He hums. “Wake you? No,” he says, idly petting one of the ducklings in his lap. They’d been so quiet you hadn’t even noticed them. “There is news of a new ship in Hilena, though.”

“Oh!”

Peking’s smile widens. He scoops the ducklings up from his lap. One lucky duckling is placed on his shoulder; the rest rustle their feathers in agitation as he gently deposits them on the ground. He stands and steps in your direction. Your breath catches, just slightly. From the tilt of his lips, he hears it.

“Have you been avoiding me, Attendant?”

The sting of pain from your teeth sinking into your bottom lip helps you focus. He’s awash with the gilded light of the setting sun, all casual power wrapped up into a lithe frame. He looks like a god, amused and pleased by an offering before him. 

“Yes,” you say simply. 

Peking steps closer. The light shifts with his movement and the play of shadows throws his features into relief. It somehow sharpens him and softens him in the same moment. “Are you afraid, Attendant?”

You hesitate. It is not a simple question, and thus there is not a simple answer. From the lazy smile rising across Peking’s lips, he knows that. He steps closer still. He moves like a predator that’s cornered its prey. 

“Are you?” you ask, leaning back onto your hands. There, with your hands mostly hidden behind your back, you sink your fingers into the dense cushion and tighten your grip until the tendons in your hand are corded like steel wire, popping up against your skin like ridges. When Peking raises an elegant brow, you muster your courage, feeling your stomach flutter. “Are you afraid?”

He cocks his head, his long braid draping over one shoulder. “Of what?”

“Being seen.”

His smile turns brittle. It's for the barest of seconds, this unexpectedly fragility, so quick that it might very well have been a trick of the light. He reaches out and runs a thumb against your jawline. You go still. He tilts your head up to meet his golden eyes. “As I’ve said, Attendant,” he muses. “You’re so interesting when you choose to be.” He holds his fingers under your chin, keeping you focused on him. His fingers are gentle enough, but you can feel them against your skin like a brand.

The two of you stay there for a moment. He’s serene, the dying light brushing across his skin like the sun kissing the surface of a pond. Your heart is pounding so hard that you’re almost dizzy. He watches you for a moment more, that beatific smile still pulling at his lips. He brushes his thumb against your jaw and then, he lets go.

He steps back with the careful deftness of one who has always had small things underfoot. A few of his ducklings chirp up at him. They’re crowding him, as they so often do, and he picks up a few more before turning towards the door.

“Peking.”

He glances back at you with his hand still on the doorknob. “Yes, Attendant?”

You grit your teeth. “Will you come tomorrow? On the trip to Hilena?”

Peking watches you for a moment. He shushes a squawking duckling and then inclines his head towards you. “Of course, Attendant.”

Your arms give out when he finally sweeps from the room. You sprawl backwards onto the cushion and gulp in a few heaving breaths. 

You think, perhaps, that maybe you have a chance to understand him.

One day.

* * *

The Tsuchigumo comes from nowhere.

Or maybe that’s just how it seems. You’ve had your guard down since leaving Hilena, too delighted by the sea breeze and the steady sea shanties ringing from ship to ship. You'd known you'd end up in the water from the moment you saw it. The port’s water was perhaps not the cleanest, but the salinity of it had buoyed you high in the drifting waves. Peking had agreed with you when you had pointed out that neither Leafy Sea Queen nor Queen Conch ever came this close to port, and with his support, you’d overruled the others.

The ocean had been cold, at first, that icy shock of deeper waters. But as she rolled over your quickly cooling skin, and the salt tickled your nose, you had settled into her. The waves had cradled you, rocked you from side to side, and when you finally rose from the ocean’s hands, calmed by her touch, Peking said nothing as he draped his vest over your form once more.

The salt is still drying on your skin, crackling each time you move, when the Tsuchigumo bursts from a nearby glade. 

Your mouth’s as dry as a desert as the Fallen Angel bears down on your group. You’ve never seen one in real life. The stories couldn’t do the horror of it justice, couldn’t grasp the metronome of the moving joints of its puppet-like limbs, couldn’t touch the haunting gaze of the horned mask. The enormity of the creature alone is enough to feel like a nightmare had walked straight out of your dreams. It sways like a snake ready to strike, and you cannot find the words.

Your Food Souls, however, do not need the words. They’ve already closed ranks around you, falling into their usual defensive and offensive positions. Vaguely, you can hear that Zongzi is speaking to you, but the world is muffled now. You are hypnotized by the glowing red item on the Fallen Angel’s chest – a heart? – and the ice suddenly circulating in your veins.

All you can do is take in shuddering breath after shuddering breath. Your eyes keep sliding shut, but you force them open over and over. You will not turn away while your Food Souls throw themselves into danger. You can hear them, slightly, yelling to each other and perhaps to you, but you cannot make sense of the words.

Then Zongzi falls. 

You see it out of the corner of your eye, one wicked arm coming down and clawing a deep gash from shoulder to hip in your Food Soul. He slices out with his sword even as he goes down to one knee, one eye shut as if it will help with the pain. The Tsuchigumo withdraws its injured arm, but turns its full attention to Zongzi.

You don’t even realize you’re moving. It takes you a full second to recognize the wind is whistling because you’re running, that the thumping sensation is from your feet hitting the ground hard and the impact is reverberating up your form. 

You skid to a stop in front of Zongzi. You think you can hear him screaming your title. It’s only when you’re directly between him and the Tsuchigumo that you realize that your earlier impressions hadn’t even brushed the surface of the horror of this creature. It’s focusing on you now, all that malevolent intent focused on your significantly smaller form. Your knees start to give out. It rears up, readying to strike, and your feet feel like they have cinder blocks attached to them.

The Tsuchigumo is fast.

Peking is faster.

Hitting the ground feels like being hit by a boulder. The impact of it lights up every nerve in your body. The pain sparks through you like lightning, sharp and searing. The initial heat of it fades quickly, but it settles into that pulsing sensation that lingers on the edge of agony.

Somehow, you are still partially upright, braced with your hands behind you. You are faintly aware that Zongzi is behind you, grasping at you with hands slippery with his own blood, trying to pull you further away. Each inch he drags you draws a sobbing breath from your lungs. You know he is talking to you, but it feels like he is at the edge of the world and you are on the other side.

All you can focus on is Peking.

He still has one arm outstretched from throwing you backwards.

He turns his head enough that you can see a single golden eye. His gaze rests on you for only a second, but you feel like you’ve been flayed open in front of him. He inclines his head, just slightly, and turns back towards the Fallen Angel as it roars.

The air starts to crackle.

There’s a brief burst of heat, so scorching and so dry that it feels like fire is licking down your throat. The ache of your body melts away under this pain, so new and different. Your eyes sting, tears pricking into life and starting to flow down your burning cheeks.

Peking wraps his fingers around his pipe. 

Air _hurts_. Your sobbing breaths feel like they’re scalding your innards, sending fire searing up your nerves. The pressure of Peking’s soul power, overflowing like lava from a volcano, makes your ears pop. There’s a vice on your chest, you’re sure of it, and it’s being clamped tighter and tighter. Your vision is blurring, black dots at the edge of it. Somewhere in front of you, there’s a burst of flame that’s practically a torrent. It sears white across your vision and you sob, a deep, wracking noise that exhausts you. The ground comes up quickly, but the expected flare of pain is less than you had imagined. It takes you a moment to realize that Zongzi has gotten his hand under your head just before it hit. His skin feels like an iceberg against yours. You close your eyes and lean into his cooling touch.

Zongzi pulls you under him. His arms cage around your head as he covers as much of your body as he can. Somehow, under him, the pressure is less, like the vines that had wound themselves around your organs have relented some. You can feel him panting against your forehead. From the brushes against your skin, he’s murmuring to you. You listen as best as you can. It doesn’t sound like words. 

Pressure flares again, striking deep and true inside of you, that vice tightening around your organs again, and Zongzi winces along with you. He says something to you again, but you can’t hear him. It doesn’t matter, though. As unconsciousness rises to meet you, you know you wouldn’t remember it anyway.

* * *

“Attendant.”

Waking up feels like pulling against the ocean tide. You struggle upwards, clawing towards the dappled surface of the water, the pressure heavy on your lungs. Your eyelids open stickily. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re lying on the ground.

“Attendant.”

You shift your body and it immediately protests, muscles contracting and relaxing against the varying aches and pains seeping through you. A hand cups your jaw as you try and turn your face back to the earth to keep from crying out. “Hush,” Milk says, her voice placid. “I’m sorry, Attendant, but I needed you awake.”

She touches you gently, carefully, but with singular focus. She ignores every question you try to ask about Zongzi until you’re itching to hurt her, to make her yield to your hunger. But you keep yourself calm. Under her hands, the pain begins to cool, the chill of her magic washing away the fire of the burns and the aches. “You took surprisingly little damage despite your foolishness,” Milk muses. “I won’t be able to heal everything entirely, but it will just be a few scrapes left.” 

The pain is all but gone when she rises from her spot next to you. You push yourself up to a sitting position and grab her wrist. “Zongzi?” you murmur.

Milk pats your head but pulls herself from your grip. “He will be fine,” she says. “I have healed him and will return to him now that you are well. Is there anything else you require, Attendant?”

You shake your head. 

“Then I will leave you two. Take a moment more to rest. We should be ready to go soon, Attendant.” Milk gives you a small smile and heads to the distant cluster of your Food Souls. “Oh, Attendant?” You glance over to her. The white haired Food Soul smiles at you. There’s a warning in that expression that makes you wince. “Never do that again.” She turns and continues on.

For a moment, you just breathe, leaning forward to rest your head against your knees. A hand glides along the nape of your neck. 

You let him touch you, his hands fluttering over you here and there. You want to tell him that Milk had been thorough, but you know what it is to need convincing that you have caused only a little damage to another being, that you haven’t broken them. If that even is the assurance he is seeking. If he’s seeking assurance at all.

Eventually, his hand slides back to the nape of your neck.

“Are you afraid, Attendant?” Peking Duck asks, a single finger tracing down to your first vertebra before he pulls away from you.

You take a deep breath - the air carries the scent of blood and the familiarity of it sends a chill down your spine - and raise your head to face him.

He is crouching beside you, close enough to touch but far enough that you don’t feel cornered. Some of his hair has come loose. There’s some dirt smudged on his collar. Other than that, he could have just stepped into your study, leading the ducklings to you. Behind him, you can see the body of the Tsuchigumo, puppet arms hanging limply. He’s smiling, just a bit, his head tilted. He looks the fool, simple and smiling, but his eyes are razor sharp and they are _hungry_ as they rest on you.

The sunlight catches his hair and deepens the color of it. The light glances off his monocle, too, but it does nothing to hide the blazing fire of those golden eyes. He stands. For a second, in that movement, you see his power again, flickering into life like an inferno. Your breath catches. He gazes down at you, amusement playing at his lips and intrigue lighting his eyes. He extends a hand to you.

“Are you afraid, Attendant?” he repeats.

“Are you, Peking Duck?”

Surprise flits across his features. It’s gone as quickly as it came.

“Maybe not,” he says. He looks at you expectantly, the mirth of his eyes barely even trying to mask those sharpened edges.

“Yes,” you answer him. “Yes, I am.”

You reach up and take his hand anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't care what elex says about food souls not having organs/blood they've had so many loading screens with blood. also i'm always a slut for the ocean and cuddling and it really shows.
> 
> i always wanted to continue on with this particular MA and Peking and hopefully this hasn't disappointed! Peking is so...difficult.
> 
> tumblr is alandofhoneyedfruits


End file.
